


Matching Stand Mixers

by AClever_Username



Series: gbbo au [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - The Great British Bake Off Fusion, Fluff, Humour, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, With as many references to canon as I can possibly cram in
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2020-10-30 02:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20807000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AClever_Username/pseuds/AClever_Username
Summary: The gbbo au literally nobody asked for





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> In this au basically all the GO eden scenes are like straight biblical canon in that one specific bible in GO which mentions Aziraphale. This makes no sense. What i'm trying to say is in this au there’s like one rare edition of the bible which details Crowley and Aziraphale and the whole exchange – Crowley as the serpent and Aziraphale giving away his flaming sword etc.

The tent was disgustingly kitschy, decked out in bunting and jam jars full of flowers and other cutesy ‘rustic’ things spawned straight from Pinterest. Crowley was just waiting to see a ‘_Live, Laugh, Love’ _sign. Or three.

One look at the pastel counters and he was convinced there were definitely at least three. Maybe even _‘A balanced diet is a scone in each hand’ _lurking somewhere.

His counter was _mint green,_ with a _matching stand mixer._ It was absolutely RUINING his Aesthetic™.

Various producers and camera people had already told him to ditch the glasses. After proving a glare could still be _very_ effective behind the lenses, it’d been unanimously decided that they stayed.

He’d applied because he was bored. And tired of shouting at his screen at the absolute _imbeciles_ that opened their oven whilst choux pastry was cooking, or CLEARLY overworked the dough, or put an egg glaze on fig rolls.

The voiceover proclaimed that the contestants were supposedly _‘12 of Britain’s best amateur bakers’, _so Crowley had decided to show them that was clearly bollocks, and that he did better on the daily at 2:17am AND shaved a good 15 minutes off all the challenge times.

And now he was standing behind a mint green counter. Accidentally on the Great British Bake Off.

It’d been a laugh until he realised they were Really Quite Serious, and he’d managed to reach the later stages of the selection process without realising. Of course he’d immediately tried to get _un- _selected as quickly as possible – being especially difficult and mildly terrifying – but all that seemed to do was spur the harried clipboard holders on.

Apparently he was a ‘real character’. ‘Absolutely perfect.’ ‘This seasons resident grumpy goth.’

Crowley was _not_ going to be the Bake Off’s ‘grumpy goth’.

Until the lady who handled the official documents had looked about 12 and very worn out from a long day of legal jargon, and went off on a tangent about how she couldn’t wait to get home quickly once he’d signed all this and say hello to her pet snake (she actually said she was _‘hecking ready to boop dat danger noodle snoot’_) and _did he like snakes? He looked like a snake guy, and don’t tell anyone but he was her favourite already and oh yes just a few signatures on this line here –_

And he’d written_ Anthony Janthony Crowley _right where her finger indicated and suddenly camera crews were round to film the obligatory backstory snippets, complimenting his plants and undoing _weeks_ of insults and threats. They also criminally underappreciated the Bentley.

Somewhere around the fifth time someone had tried to wrestle a concrete answer about what he did for a living out of him did Crowley resign himself to the undeniable fact that he had -_ somehow _\- ended up on the next season of the Great British Bake Off.

* * *

He’d had to meet the other bakers, of course, before they were all stuck in a tent and tasked to metaphorically murder each other with cake and the occasional pie.

There were a lot of _things _involved with filming a baking show, it turned out. Namely, a lot of promotional pictures and ‘get to know you’ profiles for future TV guides that nobody would read. (Because the internet existed, as Crowley kept trying to argue. He wouldn’t wish the fate of a _TV guide _on the most unruly of the little trees he’d grown). He had been ushered to a studio to be photographed all day – and to meet all the other bakers.

He slunk into reception a little late, and was immediately propelled along to the right room.

His original plan had been to slink in unnoticed and appraise the others from afar.

But the man with three lanyards around his neck and too much enthusiasm practically launched him into the right room, and Crowley couldn’t be blamed for tripping over himself and only just recovering before he met the floor with the sheer cheerful force Lanyard Man had let go of his elbow.

Needless to say, everyone turned to look at him.

Crowley straightened himself out and dropped into a swagger that was perhaps just a _little_ more unaffected than it was normally, and made sure he sounded particularly casual and not at all nervous-and-or-embarrassed when he raised a hand and said:

“Uh - hi.”

He received a chorus of _‘hellos’_ infused with enough cheerfulness to rival Lanyard Man, and smiles so wide that he could count fillings if he wanted to which were, inexplicably, despite it being a ridiculously early 8:47am, _genuine._

Before the horror of introductions and small talk could commence, more important baking-show producer people started talking, and herded them all off this way and that.

They shoved Crowley into an apron and forced him to stand for promo shots, where he sarcastically smiled with too many teeth and nobody seemed to notice.

There were no clear instructions on what to do with said apron after all his photo taking was over and done with, so he ended up standing around in it uncomfortably until someone gave him a pitying look and asked whether they could take it from him. He very briefly considered just accepting it as part of his outfit. He handed it back.

They then put a hand between his shoulder blades (which did _not_ make him jump) and steered him towards the little group of other bakers that had already had all of their promo shots done.

This time he could not avoid the small talk.

Crowley let them all chat idly without him whilst he did what he was going to do before Lanyard Man had unceremoniously thrown him into the fray; appraise the competition, as it were. He played a mental game of Bake-Off bingo as he picked out the type of bakers that had been selected.

There were the obligatory couple of students, a couple more sprightly looking Serious Candidates with professional haircuts, the Floaty One in blue eye shadow, an older woman that had made no less than five baking themed raunchy puns, and a barely understandable Scottish bloke.

They were all discussing their day jobs. The students condensed their degrees to a few complex sentences, somebody else tried to explain that they did something rather technical sounding with computers and didn’t look entirely sure of what they did themselves, and a serious looking American woman would only divulge that she was a professional something-or-other. Crowley was incredibly busy picking little shapes out of the smudges on his glasses when a new voice said they owned a bookshop in Soho. He unfocussed his eyes to see exactly the kind of person to own a bookshop had entered the impromptu circle.

The man was still adjusting his bow tie and waistcoat from where they had become rumpled during the little photo shoot. A _tartan_ bow-tie, and a worn looking beige velveteen waistcoat, so ambiguously old-fashioned that they honestly could have come straight from either 1862 or 1941, and that weirdly didn’t look that out of place on him. That wasn’t to say Mr Bookshop didn’t look out of place as a whole, because he stuck out like a particularly well-dressed sore thumb.

Crowley didn’t have much time to ponder further, as Serious American Lady turned her eyes to him.

“What about you?” she asked.

“Hngh?”

“What does the mysterious man in the dark glasses do?”

“We’re all dying to know,” said Raunchy Pun woman, batting her eyelashes.

“Mah money's oan th' mafia,” mumbled Aggressively Scottish.

They were all looking at him with mild curiosity. Crowley thought he’d take the opportunity to establish his sharp wit and comedic prowess. And also have a bit of a laugh.

“Oh me? Well the boss said _‘get up there and make some trouble’_ so - y’know, now I tempt souls on behalf of hell.” 

It was as the bakers looked at him, and did not laugh, (he didn’t count the lone, vaguely confused titter from Mr Bookshop) that Crowley realised he’d made a terrible mistake.

Another couple of distinctly laugh-less seconds went by.

A third had begun to tick with a worried side-eye Crowley’s way when he cracked a slightly desperate smile – very close in appearance to his sarcastic smile, which meant it gleamed with too many teeth - and huffed.

“Joking.”

Relief palpably ran through the bakers as they erupted into a round of polite chortling, the odd _‘very good,’ _and_ ‘funny one’_ thrown in for good measure. Someone changed the subject and the conversation continued unfazed. 

Crowley wished he was still standing on his own with the sodding apron.

He sloped off to stand outside once they were released for a break. The sky looked grim and grey and murky – even more so than was standard. He could almost taste the impending rain.

The door opened behind him. Crowley looked out of the corner of his glasses as Mr Bookshop stepped out. Since the last he’d seen him he’d added a cream coloured coat. It begun to become discoloured with the spots of rain just starting to drizzle.

Catching sight of Crowley, he gave close lipped smile, and stood beside him an arm’s length away. He seemed to relax a little once the bubbly chatter of inside was cut short by the closing door, shutting his eyes and dropping his rain dampened shoulders.

Crowley felt that. The relentless Bake-Off merriment was draining. He continued to eye him. Pondered.

He _might_ regret the whole thing a little less if at least one other baker wasn’t relentlessly sugar-sweet. Mr Bookshop looked like a strong contender.

And the guy _had _laughed at his joke. A little.

“Well that went down like a lead balloon.”

Mr Bookshop jumped as he said it, his eyes snapping open. He turned towards Crowley.

“I’m…sorry?” he said, quite understandably, considering he wasn’t privy to Crowley’s train of thought and wasn’t to know that the best ice breaker Crowley had impulsively come up with referred to a conversation now hours in the dust.

Crowley’s people skills weren’t the best.

“I said, ‘well that went down like a lead balloon’,”

But he was committed.

“Earlier I mean,” Crowley continued, at the blank look he received. “My er, my joke.”

“Oh! Well, well yes. It – It did, rather, er…”

He looked at Crowley expectedly. Crowley realised he hadn’t actually introduced himself to anyone.

“Crowley,” he provided.

Mr Bookshop blinked. “Like the demon?”

Crowley raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Yeah.”

“Really? Well – your little joke makes much more sense now. You probably should have started with your name my dear.”

Well that was no good in_ retrospect._

The rain fell a little heavier. They watched it fall.

“How about you?” Crowley asked.

“Aziraphale.”

Crowley raised both eyebrows. “Like the angel?”

This time it was Aziraphale’s turn to look surprised. “Principality, technically.”

Crowley didn’t really remember. He’d only retained the angel Aziraphale because it was mentioned in the little passage with his own namesake in some specific, tattered bible he’d read somewhere. Once.

“Do you reckon they did this on purpose?”

“I’m sorry?” Aziraphale responded, again. Because Crowley apparently had a habit of just breaking silences with questions that made sense only to him.

Crowley gestured between them. “Chose us – for the whole ‘Angel-Demon rivalry’ thing. Makes great TV,”

Aziraphale looked very faintly affronted. “Well I like to think they picked me because I can bake,”

“Hmmmm,” Crowley hummed, “just seems a bit odd that they managed to find the only person I’ve ever met with the ridiculous name ‘Aziraphale’.”

Aziraphale looked at him a little reproachfully, straitening his bowtie. “Because ‘Crowley’ is so common.”

Crowley snorted. And not in a derisive way.

Crowley’s _Snort-of-Laughter_ was not a commonly used sound. (It came far below ‘Hngh’, and ‘Ngk’).

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked to Crowley. The corner of Crowley’s mouth ticked up as he looked back.

Thunder cracked like barrels falling down some stairs, and they both turned to watch the sky. Rain started pouring in earnest.

Aziraphale pulled an umbrella from nowhere and opened it, offering it out sideways to cover Crowley.

Crowley moved over instinctively, and ducked beneath its little circle of protection. His left shoulder got wet. Aziraphale’s right grew soaked.

Crowley hadn’t seen much of Aziraphale since, (he had been rather busy coming up with edible _things_ to present for the ridiculous little challenges the judges set (they wanted _titles _for them), but Aziraphale had walked into the tent the same as Crowley. Crowley looked away from the excessive reels of bunting, and instead sought out Aziraphale, who was standing behind a baby blue counter across from him, dressed just as hideously as he had been the first time, looking just slightly strained as the Raunchy Pun leaned over her own counter to talk to him. His stand mixer was also baby blue. It matched his shirt.

Crowley had already sent a vague hope to whoever was listening (in case there, in fact, was) that he wasn’t the first to leave the tent. He watched Aziraphale nod politely, and sent out another vague hope, that he wasn’t either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly I don’t know shit about the actual bake off process I just had this stupid idea and ran with it.
> 
> Mistakes are all mine and if you wish to comment or leave kudos on this..thing, then pls do - they are very much appreciated.


	2. Chapter 2

Aziraphale was peculiar. 

For starters he wore a very slight variation on the shirt/bow-tie/waistcoat ensemble every week. Who wore a bow-tie to _bake _in? Or, for that matter, a little pocket watch, which was the most pointless thing Crowley had ever seen, considering it became immediately inaccessible with the simple action of tying his apron.

And as if Aziraphale didn’t already scream _‘I own a bookshop’_ enough, he added a whole new layer during their first technical, when he unfolded a little set of round glasses and perched them on his nose, grabbing for the laminated sheet of ‘instructions.’ (If ‘_Make this, Make that, Bake’_ did in fact qualify as _instruction)._

Everyone asked, _repeatedly,_ what the deal was with Crowley’s glasses, but in Crowley’s opinion the real mystery was with Aziraphale’s.

Crowley was _convinced_ he didn’t actually need them.

Whenever he looked over Aziraphale was looking _over _them, or lifting them out of his way, or pushing them into his hair or placing them on the side, promptly forgetting about them, and continuing to read the instructions _just fine._

Which, incidentally, were another thing Aziraphale didn’t seem to need. He was the only person Crowley had ever seen, in all his years of Bake Off viewing, who - when faced with some ridiculously obscure historical something-or-other with an incomprehensible name and an even more incomprehensible explanation as the technical challenge - _knew what it was._

And not even in an _‘I may have heard of it once’_ way; in an _‘ahh, how lovely! It’s been a while since I’ve made these’ _kind of way.

Whilst everyone else lifted gingham off their collection of nondescript jars, deep puzzled frowns on their faces, repeating the name under their breath or shooting a confused look at a camera man, Aziraphale fished the _(pointless)_ glasses from his pocket with a flourish, and immediately set about clanging bowls together and reaching with certainty for a specific nondescript jar in particular.

Upon being tasked to make Wood Street Cakes, and preceding to have no idea what the hell they were, Crowley looked across the aisle to Aziraphale’s adjacent counter. It was pale pink. It was the same colour as a ribbon of tartan woven through Aziraphale’s bow-tie.

Aziraphale was confidently mixing, muttering to himself in the way Crowley noticed he did. Mid stir he happened to look up, and caught Crowley’s eye before he was able to feign that he had been watching the progression of a squirrel across the grass behind him.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah -uh,” Crowley started, then lifted his laminated instructions. “You know what these are?”

Aziraphale lit up, which Crowley had always thought was a stupid expression, but he’d be hard pressed to describe it any other way. “Of course! Lovely little fruitcakes with rosewater icing. Like most forgotten cakes they have such interesting history - it’s said that when King James the Second had to flee to Europe he had one for the journey you know.”

Crowley didn’t know. He was pretty certain no-one but Aziraphale had that as on-hand knowledge. “Right.”

There was a muffled curse behind him, followed by someone else’s considerably less muffled curse. They both looked around. One of the Student Types had some kind of _slime_ hanging from his whisk, and Maybe Fixes Computers was looking dejectedly at the pile of fruit on the floor.

Aziraphale glanced at a couple of the other counters, bit his lip, then looked about himself in the least subtle way anyone has ever tried to be subtle. Apparently suitably convinced MI6 wasn’t listening in, he leaned closer. Crowley did the same, so they were talking across the aisle.

“I probably shouldn’t say,” Aziraphale began, hushed, as if he was spilling trade secrets, “but…careful with the yeast.”

He leaned back and continued mixing.

Crowley listened to the slight carnage around him for a second longer, and continued with the challenge.

He made sure to go _very_ lightly with the yeast.

Aziraphale came second in the technical. Crowley came first. He jumped when Raunchy Pun, sitting next to him in the line of stools, jiggled his shoulder rather violently in celebration.

They were sent outside to idle by the little selection of wicker chairs. Crowley wondered whether a patio set on some grass was really the best Bake Off could do.

Aziraphale stood brushing non-existent dust from his sleeves. Crowley sidled up next to him.

“Thanks, by the way. For the tip.”

Aziraphale feigned a disinterested air. Badly. His eyes betrayed a smile. “Not a problem my dear.”

Crowley started. It was the second time Aziraphale had called him that. “Well I-I guess I owe you one,”

“Oh that’s not necessary. I just like to help.”

“You do understand the concept of a competition? You’re not meant to be helping me cheat,”

“It wasn’t cheating! There’s a distinct difference between _cheating_ and _advice.”_

He sounded indignant, but Crowley cracked a small smile, and the one in Aziraphale’s eyes touched the corner of his lips.

Crowley nudged him with his elbow. “Not very angelic of you, _Oh Principality Aziraphale,”_

He was sent a Look. “It was a Nice thing to do!”

“Still breaking the Bake Off rules though right?”

Aziraphale waved him away, muttering lowly. “Barely counts as a transgression.”

Crowley made a sound. His Rarely-Used-At-Least-Until-Now Snort of Laughter.

“Regardless,” he continued, “I still owe you one,”

“If you win, then perhaps.”

“If I win? How am I meant to repay you? With that cake stand money? Oh yes I’ll just rock up to the Ritz like _‘happen to accept engraved cake stand?’”_

“The Ritz?”

Crowley flushed. He didn’t know where that had come from. “Yeah well – it’s fancy enough to go to celebrate.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Good choice. They do a lovely Tahitian vanilla mousse.”

They fell silent, staring at a duck that was wandering across the grass, and the camera man that was following it. Crowley ticked another box off his mental Bake Off bingo; animal transition shot, _check. _

Either of them could plausibly win. Crowley was technically better at the technical side - practising relentlessly until things decided (with a bit of threatening, cursing, and mean glares) to come out _perfect_ made him particularly adept at most techniques_._ He could also make things look neat in a way which didn’t make Prue utter words like _‘rustic’_ and _‘little messy’_ like she sometimes did with Aziraphale.

But Crowley couldn’t _flavour _things like Aziraphale could.

When tasting Crowley’s bakes the judges liked to chuck around words like _‘overpowering’_. (Maybe he _liked_ to have his taste buds stripped away by cinnamon).

That was never a problem for Aziraphale.

Everyone in the tent was subjected to the same arduous routine; await the arrival of the judges, then explain an impossible sounding plan whilst Paul and Prue looked increasingly sceptical and borderline perturbed. Crowley always listened in when it was Aziraphale’s turn, and the genuine enthusiasm didn’t even so much as flinch in the face of raised eyebrows and an inquiry into whether that was from _zest or extract? _Aziraphale seemed to have beaten the system, for when the judging came, complete with a prepared ‘_I told you so’_ already on the tip of their tongues, they could not fault the flavour. It was incredibly satisfying to see Paul be wrong about something.

Crowley could tell Aziraphale was a little smug about it too, from the way he straightened up behind his counter.

* * *

Crowley often found himself with spare time, and had to amuse himself with absolutely riveting things like opening the fridge (very carefully when nobody’s food was in it - he wasn’t about to start another Baked Alaska Scandal), or rearranging his ingredients again and again, picking at the little lines of black tape plastered over the brand names, as if anyone would take one look at his tin of golden syrup and _not_ instantly recognise it as Lyles. So far his favourite pastime was opening the proving drawer and sticking his hands in. It was comfortably warm. His time in the tent _was _replacing his regular schedule of basking in the patch of sunlight that filtered into his flat. He had to make it up somehow. The cameras practically raced over whenever they spotted him doing it, and Crowley scrunched his nose up at them Every. Single. Time. How much footage of Bloke On Floor did they need anyway?

The other bakers appeared to be too busy to discover the delights of the proving drawer. They all seemed constantly rather frazzled.

Everyone except one of the Serious Candidates, who’d gotten an even more severe haircut since he’d last seen them, and Aziraphale.

That was another peculiar thing about Aziraphale. He was rather calm about the whole thing, (maybe more accurately he was Flustered But On Top Of It) and fluctuated between enjoying himself immensely and looking as Done as he had been when he’d stepped out into the rain. His mood seemed to correlate directly with how much time he spent actually baking and how much he was subjected to the simpering smiles of the more annoying bakers. Or the camera people. Or the presenters.

In fact he looked as if he hated all that as much as Crowley did.

Sitting on the floor, hands firmly in the proving drawer, Crowley watched as Noel tried out a bit of banter with a rushed looking Aziraphale. Aziraphale’s responses were kind. But in a _Please Leave _kind of way. He didn’t quite have his own sarcastic smile, but he had deployed his disinterested nod a few times. 

Crowley just been watching idly, but quite without meaning to Aziraphale caught his eye over Noel’s shoulder, and from his angle on the floor he couldn’t even try to pretend to be watching squirrels.

Aziraphale didn’t turn away. Instead he shared a look with Crowley that all but begged for some help. 

Crowley shrugged and mouthed back _‘busy’._

He watched Aziraphale take in the relaxed way he was sitting, his idle hands, and had to hide an amused sound in the crook of his elbow as Aziraphale’s expression flashed with betrayal. 

They caught eyes more often, after that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I went ahead and actually planned out plot for this.
> 
> I also had to do a little bit of digging to try and find Bake Off-esque cakey desert-y things, hence the wood street cakes and accompanying trivia.
> 
> Any mistakes are my bad, and kudos and comments are always welcome. Let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 3

Maybe Fixes Computers was having a meltdown.

Quite literally, considering his mousse hadn’t set, and he was now standing in a rapidly spreading strawberry cream puddle, attempting to stop it from running everywhere by cupping it in his hands. Which resulted in sticky, strawberry cream covered hands, and a counter-top even more smeared in the stuff than before.

The guy had even got it in his hair, and was surely operating half blind, if the sheer amount of pink splodge on the right lens of his glasses had anything to do about it.

Crowley’s mousses had, of course, set perfectly, and were back in the fridge with the addition of a shiny chocolate layer. He had been wiping the sugar from his counter when he’d heard a wretched exclaim of ‘_BOLLOCKS’ _from behind, and turned to watch the mousse massacre unfold.

Maybe Fixes Computers started scooping the mixture back into the moulds. It was going terribly.

Crowley wrung the tea towel he was holding between his hands, and when he looked away his eyes found Aziraphale, as they so often did when he wasn’t focussing on piping absurd icing structures or employing his best menacing glower at an approaching camera person.

Aziraphale’s mousses had also come out rather well, from the look Crowley had snuck at them. He didn’t quite have enough time to start wiping down his counter in the interim, but his chopping was far from harried. The stand mixer was rotating at a leisurely pace. It was lilac. So was Crowley’s.

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed as he stood watching the disaster, wringing his hands. There was a golden ring on his little finger. He twisted it absently.

From the front of the room came a time call, and Maybe Fixes Computers suddenly looked very much on the verge of tears.

The tea towel was set down on the counter as Crowley left it, lunging to grab for the mould Computers near dropped, though honestly he didn’t think letting it fall could possibly contribute any more to the (already considerable) mess.

A hand grabbed the mould’s other side just as Crowley caught his half. A hand with a gold ring on its little finger. Up close, he could see the ring was actually a set of wings. (Which Crowley would say was a bit on the nose for someone named Aziraphale if he didn’t have a snake tattooed on his temple). 

Crowley looked at Aziraphale as they set the mould down onto the section of tabletop least covered in what could only be described as _goo,_ and their eyes shared a sentiment. A look that said _‘I can’t stand by and watch this any longer without doing SOMETHING.’_

Maybe Fixes Computers looked particularly hot and bothered. He wiped his brow with the sleeve of his jumper.

“Oh _thank you_ I – I don’t think I can do this,”

Aziraphale moved to stand next to him, hovering a hand over his back before giving him a tentative pat.

“Now, now, dear, I’m sure we can sort this out.”

All three stared down at the mess. Then at the two blackened tins of what once _might _have been cake. Crowley had seen softer looking bricks.

Crowley raised his head, and then an eyebrow. Aziraphale gave him a rather desperate look over Computer’s shoulder that had him murmuring a strangled hum and a more concrete “mmm_\- yeah.”_

“It’s unsalvageable,” Computers said wretchedly.

Aziraphale winced. “Well we can certainly clear it up.”

He grabbed for a towel, and Crowley spun to retrieve his, almost knocking over the series of camera people leaning over his back, who had flocked to document Mousse Meltdown. Sandi was hurriedly making her way over too, most likely with words of encouragement.

Crowley fetched his tea towel and mopped. And mopped and mopped and _mopped._

How much of the stuff _was there? _They only had to make _12 _of the sodding things for hell’s sake.

The winged ring appeared beside him as Aziraphale mopped too. Computers was chatting with Sandi.

Crowley checked no microphones were lurking nearby, then muttered quietly.

“He’s doomed,”

“Oh definitely.”

They both surveyed the carnage.

“I suppose…” Crowley begun, “just weighing the ingredients for him would be fine,”

“And stirring his jam,” Aziraphale agreed.

“He’d have something to put on the plate.”

They nodded to each other.

Aziraphale dropped his tea towel and affected a bright tone. “Right! Buck up! You’ve got a new batch to make pronto! Now kindly just point us where we’re needed.”

Maybe Fixed Computers blinked rather blearily. “But you – you don’t have time-”

“You have less. You’re operating in minus figures here, so _stop chatting,”_ Crowley snapped, angrily stirring jam.

Computers nodded; a little frantically, but gratefully.

* * *

They flopped down together in the wicker chairs.

“Well he presented something,” Crowley said.

“That he did,”

“Nothing short of a miracle, ‘ey angel?”

There was a half second of silence.

Crowley realised he’d made a _Major Cock-Up._

He also wished he’d just melted like the damned mousse.

Crowley stammered nothing but a series of unintelligible sounds as a whole barrage of words tried to force their way out of his mouth all at the same time; desperate to get out but without any plan to actually form a sentence once they were. Or an explanation. Was there an explanation? There _had_ to be an explanation.

Crowley gestured rather desperately at Aziraphale’s ring. “Y’know, ‘cos er – _‘Aziraphale.’ _The Angel. Principality, technically. And - and your ring, right? With the – the wings.”

He’d sat down at a rather horizontal angle to begin with, but during his stuttering he’d slumped so much he was in danger of sliding right off the chair and slithering away through the grass. (Which was - honestly - ideal).

Crowley cleared his throat. Abruptly became rather interested in a distant cloud.

“Just trying out a nickname,” he murmured finally.

A moment passed, in which Crowley cursed everything that had ever lead up to that moment. Even himself. _Especially_ himself. 

Beside him, Aziraphale shifted.

“There are worse nicknames to be given, I suppose.”

Crowley glanced at him. Aziraphale was fiddling with his cuffs. His eyes flickered from his lap to Crowley, then back again, sort of under his lashes. His small smile seemed…pleased.

The sheer force of the relief that he had somehow not _Completely Fucked Things _was so great that Crowley almost did slip off his chair, and had to shuffle himself back up gracefully. (It was impossible to shuffle gracefully).

“Yeah well you_ were_ ‘Mr Bookshop’,”

Aziraphale’s almost bashful expression vanished in an instant. _“Mr Bookshop!”_

“Ay don’t knock it! – you had one of the better ones. Mousse kid? Salamander or whatever his name is? – he’s ‘Maybe Fixes Computers’,” he said, indicating him with a tilt of his head. He preceded to subtly point out Raunchy Pun, Serious Candidates 1 and 2, Floaty, and Severe American Woman: (Possibly A Witch).

_“Crowley!” _Aziraphale scolded. But he was laughing.

“See? ‘Angel’ isn’t so bad.”

They trailed off into silence. They sat contentedly, and watched nothing in particular.

* * *

Maybe Fixes Computers, unsurprisingly, had to leave. Star Baker went to Crowley.

When they called his name he just lifted his eyebrows and braced himself for the jiggling and random slaps of celebration. (Why people collectively decided hitting each other was an appropriate form of congratulations was a mystery).

The cameras took him outside for a little post-Star Baker interview. They wanted him to call someone to tell them the good news.

“Who’d I call?”

“It’s up to you - Friends? Family?”

Crowley looked off. He could see Aziraphale talking with the other bakers.

“Mr-Crowley-Sir?”

“Mmmnn-yeah, I’m good actually.”

He walked off, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Aziraphale noticed his approach and broke off to meet him.

He was beaming at him. Which was silly. _He_ didn’t win Star Baker.

“Oh well _done_ Crowley!”

Crowley waved his hand in a gesture that was meant to replace words. But it didn’t. Because waving a hand wasn’t very articulate.

The camera people seemed to have realised they weren’t getting Crowley back, and were traipsing their equipment back inside the tent.

Aziraphale was watching them.

“What did they want you for?”

“Oh they wanted me to do one of those interview segment thingies - call someone about being Star Baker,”

“Who did you call? If you don’t mind me asking,”

“No-one,” he said. And then he said more. “I don’t really…_get on, _with my lot.”

Aziraphale’s brow creased. “No,” he murmured quietly. “Neither, really. We…” he looked around, up, “...have a few differences of opinion.”

Aziraphale’s eyes looked very large and blue as he gazed up.

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” Crowley murmured.

They looked away, back towards the tent. The birds twittered.

They weren’t in a hurry to move. Everything still had to be packed up and what-not, but then they were free to go.

Crowley had already let his mouth run unchecked enough for one day. Which is why it was perhaps unwise to open it again.

“Listen – do you want a lift?”

Aziraphale stopped twisting his ring. “A lift?”

“Yeah, after we’re all done here. You live in Soho right? I’m not too far. It’ll be easy to drop you off,”

“Oh I don’t want to impose-”

“You won’t,” he said. Which was odd, because it was true. Crowley had never let anyone else in the Bentley before, but it wasn’t difficult to picture Aziraphale in the passenger seat. “I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

There was a pause whilst Aziraphale considered.

“In that case – yes. A ‘lift’ would be lovely.”

Crowley nodded. Swung back on his heels. Almost swung too far and tipped over. Saved it.

“You’ll like the Bentley – she’s vintage,” he said proudly.

It was clear from Aziraphale’s face that that meant nothing, but he made appreciative noises all the same.

Crowley didn’t mind. He got the feeling Aziraphale would love her regardless.

“Limited music options though I’m afraid – Queen or The Velvet Underground,”

“What’s a ‘_Velvet Underground?’”_

Crowley tried to imagine Aziraphale listening to it. Just as quickly abandoned that.

“Never mind – you won’t like it.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, like he understood. “Be-bop.”

Crowley huffed a laugh. Smiled. Took the edge from his voice as he gazed down at Aziraphale’s hair.

“Only you angel, only you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Classic Crowley Cock-up. My dumb boi :')
> 
> Mistakes, typos etc are all my bad; kudos and comments are awesome so if you want drop me a line


	4. Chapter 4

It was ‘Botany Week’, so clearly someone in charge was running dangerously low on ideas.

Flowers were _everywhere._ Every counter looked like they were trying to flog a posy to a passing businessman, the floor was practically cushioned with petals, and it smelt like someone had bombed the place with Febreeze.

And as if _that _wasn’t enough, Floaty had gone the Extra Mile, and woven flower crowns for everyone. Sandi and Noel received theirs with slightly unhinged joy – Noel especially – and filmed an array of flower-crown themed skits. (Which meant they’d been pissing about with a whole range of props and the odd baking utensil).

Crowley spotted Aziraphale heading for the fridge and hastily finished wrapping his clingfilm. He nudged Aziraphale’s shoulder as he met him there.

“Aziraphale. If she comes anywhere near me with one of those her edible elderflower rose will go mysteriously missing,” Crowley said darkly.

“Come now,” said Aziraphale, placing his tray on a shelf, “it’s sweet.”

“Do _you_ want one?”

Aziraphale watched the dandelions plonked on Serious Candidate 1’s head droop down into their eyes. A leaf fluttered into their caramel.

He grimaced.

Crowley shoved his tray next to Aziraphale’s. “Thought not.”

“Nice gesture nonetheless,” Aziraphale muttered warily.

Serious Candidate 2 – the annoying one who couldn’t go a sentence without mentioning her year backpacking in Italy and seemingly obtained every ingredient from organic Mongolian fishing villages (or at the very least, Waitrose) – recoiled as Floaty approached with her designated flower crown.

“I’m good actually honey,”

“But – I made one for everybody,”

“And they’re gorgeous! – I just don’t want it slipping off is all!”

“Oh.”

Floaty’s smile wilted. The flower crown drooped in her hands.

“You see,” continued Serious Candidate 2, “when I was in Italy-”

Crowley rolled his eyes and closed the fridge violently. Violently enough that it didn’t actually close but swung back open again and thwacked him rather hard in the leg. But the noise was substantial enough to halt miss _let me tell you about real pizza._ From the corner of his eye he saw Aziraphale calmly shut the door.

Floaty jumped at the noise, looking round and spotting Crowley’s unadorned head. She brightened considerably and made her way over.

“This one’s for you then!” she said, and held the flower crown aloft before Crowley.

Crowley paused. Then, no matter what was said, did _not_ stoop to make it easier for her to drape him in it.

Floaty clapped her hands. Rushed back to continue baking at her counter.

Crowley side eyed a quietly amused Aziraphale.

“It suits you.”

“Shut up.”

Crowley watched as Aziraphale, looking rather surprised but wearing his pleased smile, received a Hollywood handshake.

Crowley didn’t know why Aziraphale was surprised. Everyone in the tent had been exuding envy as Aziraphale pushed his signature to the end of his bench. It was the type of thing that’d have a glossy picture taking up entire A4 page in a food magazine – in one of the _quality _food magazines, that didn’t have a life story before every recipe.

The judges walked away to the next baker, and the camera’s followed. Aziraphale settled himself back down on his stool and busied himself righting his bowtie and smoothing the creases from his apron. Crowley watched, and decided to congratulate him himself. Aziraphale deserved it.

“Hey angel,”

Aziraphale turned. He was still a little flushed from the judge’s praise, and he darkened more at the soft use of his nickname. To clarify, it’d been soft because Crowley was whispering behind the camera’s back. That was the only reason. Obviously.

He looked expectant, waiting for whatever Crowley was going to say. 

Crowley had no idea what he was going to say. He was thinking about how similar Aziraphale’s blush was to the pale pink of the mixing bowls. After a second he settled for flashing Aziraphale a double thumbs up. 

Aziraphale smiled, and mouthed back an overly sincere _‘thank you’._

The outrageous task of the week? The showstopper. Some needlessly complicated fusion of meringue and cake, plus a series of wobbly custard/sorbet/angel delight looking creams. And of course, some tenuous botany link.

There was an annoying amount of waiting involved, whilst things thickened and froze and baked, and one by one the bakers dropped into Waiting Montage clichés. A lot of jiggling legs and useless opening and closing of fridges. Crowley opted to clean his workbench. He was left the only one upright, as everybody else succumbed to staring anxiously through the glass of their ovens. The camera people couldn’t decide who to run to first.

Even Aziraphale was watching his cake tins worriedly, kneeling on the carpet and wringing his hands. Twisting the winged ring around his finger.

A small frown of concentration was creasing his face. He closed his eyes, as if very quietly praying for a cake related miracle.

Crowley walked over quietly; bent next to Aziraphale’s ear.

_“Oh Lord, heal this cake,”_ he drawled.

Aziraphale’s eyes snapped open. Crowley was given an unamused glare.

“It couldn’t hurt,” he said, then fell anxious again as he turned back to the orange glow of the oven. “This has the potential to go very, _very,_ wrong.”

Aziraphale talked with his hands.

Crowley snorted, settling himself down on the floor, making a conscious effort not to bash Aziraphale with a stray knee or foot as he folded his legs. “It’ll be fine.”

Aziraphale was quiet, then noticed Crowley making himself comfy. Or as comfy he could get on some temporary carpet in a glorified gazebo.

“You should get back to your own Crowley,”

“What? To stare through a different oven? If I’m gonna do that it might as well be this one.”

They sat in silence, and watched the cake do nothing.

Eventually Sandi made her way over, and Crowley got up to leave them to it. It turned out Aziraphale and Sandi got on rather well, as discovered when she’d dropped an offhand fact from her QI reservoir and they’d fallen into deep discussion in-between pastry rolling.

Crowley leant back against his own counter and watched them.

“You two get on well.”

He snapped round to see Raunchy Pun leaning over her bench at him.

Crowley made several noises of confusion. “What?”

“You and Mr Fell, lovie. Don’t think we haven’t noticed.”

She raised an eyebrow and smiled at him, and although the sound of the timer was more beep than chime, Crowley couldn’t help but feel rather saved by the bell as she turned to fish her cake from the oven.

They climbed into the Bentley. It was comfortable, having Aziraphale there, but a very odd sort of it, where Crowley was aware he was sitting in the passenger seat the entire time. Witnessing him grab for a handle that wasn’t there was greatly amusing, but if they got on to a topic of conversation he liked enough to become completely engrossed, then the Bentley flew around bends with only the _barest,_ exclaim of_ ‘tree, tree, TREE’._

Topics Aziraphale liked included: Books, (this was a very loose category. There had once been an entire rant about the absolute state of a leaflet that had come through the letterbox), pop culture circa the Renaissance, the best places to grab crepes, the best places to grab sushi, the best places for a cream tea (throwing out any food item spurred an impromptu Yelp review), or how much he hated people trying to buy books from his shop. (And yes, Crowley had explained that was the principle of a bookstore).

Crowley took every turn at 90 (mph. Although the sharpness with which he jerked the wheel warranted the angle too), and listened to Aziraphale’s chatter. He heard a lot less Queen. He turned it down whenever Aziraphale really got talking.

They were parked outside the bookshop at a time of day that it really ought to be open, and Aziraphale had just divulged another passion of his.

“Magic tricks. You can’t be serious.”

“I’m perfectly serious.”

Aziraphale fished a coin from his pocket, and proceeded to not do a magic trick. At all. Not even close.

Crowley laughed as Aziraphale bent to pick up the coin spinning in the footwell. “Well that was _spectacular.”_

It earned him an Aziraphale Glare. “It’s a difficult craft.”

“Yeah I can see that.”

Aziraphale righted his lapels, very slightly cross.

“That’s not very nice of you,”

“Yeah well I’m not nice.”

There was a policeman over the road, frowning at the Bentley. Crowley turned to watch him through the windscreen. He frowned, and didn’t pay any attention to the words he said like a reflex.

“It’s why I don’t have friends.”

There was a pause that Crowley should have paid more attention to.

“None at all?” came Aziraphale’s quiet voice.

The policeman was fishing for his notebook. “Mmh – no.”

It took another moment for Crowley’s brain to catch up, and he jolted like it’d slapped him.

He promptly forgot about the policeman, turning quickly to Aziraphale.

He was staring through the windscreen, so Crowley could only see his profile. But Aziraphale was expressive, and his profile was more than sufficient to see the hurt.

“Aziraphale – I didn’t mean-”

“Thank you for the lift.”

_“Aziraphale_ _listen-”_

“Oh I heard you fine the first time,” he said quietly. “Friends aren’t…_your thing, _so I – well I suppose it’s a good thing I don’t even like you,” he finished. His words should have been cold. But they didn’t sound it. He reached for the door handle.

“You_ do_,” Crowley said, and it sounded desperate to his own ears. Aziraphale opened the door.

“See you next week, Crowley.”

Crowley sat in the car as Aziraphale entered the bookshop, shutting his door rather finally behind him, although he knew that was just to keep out the cold.

Aziraphale’s coin lay on the passenger seat.

It’d grown warm in Crowley’s hand as he approached the tent, spotting the white blond curls he was looking for.

He stood next to Aziraphale and waited until he met his eyes.

“You left this,” he said, holding out the coin.

Aziraphale took it.

Crowley shuffled his feet. Shoved his hands in his pockets. Removed them. “I looked them up – magic tricks, I mean. Turns out they’re considerably harder than I thought.”

Crowley had seen many a Youtube video and accomplished nothing but spilling a pack of cards over his apartment.

“The King of hearts had it out for me – I’ve got _nine _papercuts. Might even have to ask for a blue plaster.”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley’s hands. “Nine papercuts is a rather impressive feat.”

_“Isn’t it?”_ Crowley said, in a voice too high to be casual.

Aziraphale tucked the coin away. There was a time call, and they all shuffled into a group so they could be filmed descending the garden steps.

Serious Candidate 2, self-appointed ambassador of Italy, spectacularly dropped her tart. There was a flip on the way down, beautiful crumbledge on collision with the floor. An all round 10/10 show for anyone that wasn’t her.

Crowley was braced against his bench, eyes on the wreckage. Someone came to stand next to him. 

“That’s a shame.”

Crowley looked to Aziraphale, who was watching Serious Candidate 2 fail to react as she processed the smeared remains of her tart.

“Should we help her?” he asked.

“Oh I’m afraid we’re far too busy.”

Aziraphale hadn’t even walked over with anything.

Crowley smirked. Picked a fleck of nail polish off his thumb.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, “for the – y’know. What I said.” He swallowed. “Maybe I’d have some _friends_ if I wasn’t such a stupid prick, an absolute cock, a complete dickhead, a-”

“Alright my dear that’s quite enough synonyms.”

It’d been a week. And he’d missed that ‘my dear.’ He dared to look out from the corner of his glasses.

“You sure? I can keep going? - A monstrous pillcock -”

“Crowley,”

“A _gigantic_ knob -”

_“Crowley!” _he chastised, but he was chuckling. He dropped into one of his unsubtle whispers. “The _cameras.”_

Crowley smiled, widely, with teeth. And not sarcastically. He was still leaning against the desk, as all his limbs felt like noodles and he had a tenuous grasp on them to begin with.

“Do y - you still want a lift?”

Aziraphale looked at him. Softly. “Of course. We can listen to _‘Suede Subway.’”_

Crowley drew in a breath. “For the _last time-”_

He stopped. Aziraphale was standing innocently, except for the twinkle of mirth in the creases by his eyes. 

“Bastard,” he muttered.

Aziraphale laughed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Had to have some angst in there somewhere right?
> 
> Mistakes and everything are mine, and kudos and comments are always awesome!


	5. Chapter 5

It was hot. Really, _bloody _hot, in the way the tent seemed to be for at least one episode of the season.

Everyone was sweating. The_ food _was sweating; droplets of condensation were sliding down containers and settling in unsavoury puddles and moist looking sheens on sponges. Crowley wasn’t making a drizzle cake but the sheer amount of liquid pooling everywhere almost tempted him into changing his plan.

For once the warmth of the proving drawer was unnecessary. Crowley was _more _than warm. It was a surprise that he hadn’t spontaneously burst into flame, and he was _sure_ his mixture had started to cook in the bowl as he held it between hot palms.

He_ may _have been regretting the all black outfit. Even Noel had ditched the dark skinny jeans and instead sported a pastel monstrosity of a shirt. 

Crowley had shed his jacket. As had everyone else in the tent with a braincell. Even _Prue_ had laid her Primary-Coloured-Blazer-Of-The-Day aside.

Now, that left most sensible people in just one layer. But Crowley and Aziraphale had a shared fondness for a waistcoat. 

Crowley had struggled onward, but eventually succumbed and ditched the thing off to one side. (He didn’t actually know where it had went. He’d flung it off in the fifth _oh-fuck-is-that-an-insect-no-its-just-a-bead-of-sweat-running-suspiciously-bee-like-down-my-back_ episode of the day and hadn’t cared to check where it had landed. When he’d gone to make amends approximately one tart later, it had vanished. Crowley’s money was on the Camera-person with the ponytail. He disliked them in particular. They had a passion for filming low zoom shots that Crowley barely resisted flipping the finger to). The last Crowley had checked Aziraphale had still been sweating valiantly away in his usual trussed up waistcoat-and-bowtie ensemble, and he’d thought him an idiot.

They were making Ensaïmada Mallorquina, a type of spiralled pastry that had to be left to rise several times, which meant a solid two and a half hours of being cooked themselves in an oven of white plastic and fairy lights. Crowley finally shoved the bloody things in the oven, wiped away the ridiculous amount of sweat on his forehead, and thoughtlessly checked in on Aziraphale.

Who had, at some point, ditched his waistcoat.

And his bowtie, and opened not one but _two _buttons of his shirt.

Even his shirtsleeves, normally neatly rolled up, had been shoved as far up his arms as the fabric would permit.

His hair was ruffled in all directions, and looked very white against his flushed skin.

The reason why it was so ruffled became apparent when he ran a hand through it, looking rather irritated by the heat.

And Crowley, despite knowing Aziraphale was still in a perfectly decent amount of clothing, had never seen Aziraphale so…_undressed,_ and reacted like a Victorian man spotting an inch of an ankle.

His cheeks burned with a heat that was nothing to do with the sun beating down outside.

Aziraphale was oblivious to Crowley’s staring, and was concentrating on twisting his dough into intricate little shapes. His eyebrows had drawn together in an intent frown whilst he worked. As he bent further over his counter his collar gaped, and revealed a flash of collarbone.

His hair had caught the light, and was lit up golden in an appropriate little halo, the sun flashing on his skin. 

Crowley watched Aziraphale work, illuminated, the blue of his eyes so much brighter than the muted tone of his workbench.

To his right came a badly smothered giggle.

Crowley jerked and flicked his eyes to the sound.

Serious Candidate 1 and Raunchy Pun were leaning towards him, eyebrows raised, smiling very _knowingly, _as if they knew why Crowley felt rather caught.

He was, simply, being given a Look.

Serious Candidate 1 went back to the task after another quiet titter, but Raunchy Pun glanced meaningfully towards Aziraphale, who had just slid his own pastries in the oven and muttered a triumphant noise under his breath.

Crowley didn’t look to Aziraphale. Instead he turned with purpose back to his bench and kept his eyes firmly on the wood countertop. He concentrated _very hard _on making his cream filling and decided he had absolutely _no idea _what that Look was meant to imply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey sorry this is a bit late and short but I was working on my other fic this week and I was also at comic con so my time was a little limited. Hope you like all the same!
> 
> Mistakes etc are my bad and kudos and comments are awesome!


	6. Chapter 6

Aziraphale was in a spot of bother.

It had to be the Curse of Star Baker. Aziraphale had won it last week with ease, starting off strong with a gently spiced brioche signature, continuing to be endlessly knowledgeable in the technical, and knocking everybody else’s Kouign-amann showstopper, (a type of round and multi-layered Breton cake, originally made with bread dough and baked slowly until the butter puffed up and the sugar browned, and ended up as sort of like a caramelised croissant) out of the park. 

He’d set about making them all with sure hands. Crowley had watched him work, and something that had been bugging him hit him (and of course not literally, but his elbow slipped off the counter and thoroughly soiled an Effortless Lean all the same).

What had occurred to him, whilst Aziraphale baked away, was what it was that made Aziraphale’s bakes so captivating. It was the _passion_.

Everything Crowley made was good. All round edible. But when they were all allowed to nibble at each other’s leftovers it was Aziraphale’s everyone flocked to.

Aziraphale had said once, during an instance in the Bentley where the conversation had been steered away from the importance of speed limits and one-way signs, that if he didn’t want to eat something himself then it wasn’t worth making. And Crowley had only half understood.

But last week Crowley had been (almost literally) floored by the joy Aziraphale put into what he made, by how proud he was to present everything, even knowing Prue’s raised eyebrows and a _‘shabby’_ might be coming his way. Aziraphale had set down every dish almost with adoration, and Crowley had never wanted to be a baked good so intensely in his entire life. He was sure they were all resting especially smugly on their presentation slates.

When they’d announced, despite it being the third time, that Aziraphale had won star baker, he’d looked as delightfully surprised as always.

And then, not at all _as always,_ he suggested that he and Crowley should grab a cream tea in celebration. Impromptu and bright-eyed.

Now, in order to endure extended bouts of social interaction Crowley normally needed at least a weeks’ notice, a full month’s if he wanted to be fully prepared. _Unexpected, unscheduled_ interactions were normally a firm no go.

_Normally._

_Normally_ Crowley wouldn’t offer someone a lift home, or hate it when they left. _Normally_ he had no one who’d talk to him about nonsense, and would listen to nonsense in return.

Aziraphale was smiling wide, waiting, and Crowley could only nod like worlds most unhinged nodding dog.

Aziraphale clapped his hands together. “Lovely.”

They sat close in the tea room. They sat close in the Bentley, or on the stupid wicker chairs (one of which had actually blown away in a very summery thunderstorm, despite the best efforts of several set hands - and Noel) but it appeared that shoving an excess of time and a tiered stand of sandwiches, scones, and cakes between them meant Crowley forgot how to function. It was akin to every warning light all flashing up at once on a car’s dashboard (not that the Bentley did anything so heinous).

He’d drunk one cup of coffee and consequently assumed he had fused with it from the way he jittered. His bouncing leg hit the table as he sat, rattling the cutlery, and he shot a nervous look to Aziraphale at the sound, but Aziraphale said nothing about it, and instead reached for the menu. Crowley let Aziraphale pour the tea lest he spill it everywhere, and declined all food vehemently. (He didn’t trust himself to eat without accidently choking himself to death. And that would be embarrassing). But then Aziraphale had frowned and Crowley had eaten half a scone. And then Aziraphale frowned a bit more so he’d eaten the other half and a little éclair. (And didn’t choke. Though there’d been a slight close call with a crumb that took a wrong turn down his windpipe).

Never had Crowley seen someone appreciate a cream tea like Aziraphale. He enjoyed it with the same passion he baked with. Crowley’s near-fatal snacks were long gone, so he waited, and felt a weird mix of ignored and incredibly included, just sitting at the table.

After they’d finished he’d driven slower than usual, and let himself be subjected to one of Aziraphale’s magic tricks, complaining with a gusto that was fuelled by Aziraphale’s enthusiasm.

A few days later Crowley was standing in his kitchen amongst a plethora of ingredients that really shouldn’t be put together and an industrial size carton of eggs, and thought of something particularly witty to say. He looked up without thinking.

“Angel-”

He trailed off into silence, the shine of his sleek black surfaces reflecting only his own face back at him. 

A week later, and the Curse of Star Baker had struck. The Semi-final had started off swimmingly. (A word Crowley had recently acquired and used with only a _hint_ of mockery).

And then the baking started.

Things had gone downhill for Aziraphale right from the start; his signature underwhelming and technical poor. It wasn’t that he’d fallen victim to the whims of stupidity that some bakers did – his oven was on; all his ingredients were included - he was just suffering from the most ineffable of afflictions - a Bad Day. The dull brown of his counter was starting to seem like a dismal omen to Crowley. 

Aziraphale was on his third batch of pastry, the butter having seeped out of the other two (and unlike with Kouign-amann, it _wasn’t_ meant to do that), looking quietly rumpled, making wretched noises of distress it seemed only Crowley could hear. There were no hysterics, in fact the cameras barely seemed to realise something was wrong. But his face was pinched, and he was wringing his hands. The angel-winged ring twist, twist, twisting around his finger.

Crowley had given up on covertly staring. He’d graduated into openly worrying. He hadn’t looked back to his own station in long enough to only _assume _it was still pastry he was rolling. Slower, and slower, until he was just standing in his apron, crushing a particular dent in the dough as his fingers tightened around the rolling pin and he leaned down, his mouth tight. Aziraphale clattered down a tray and took a step back, his eyes shining rather wetly. 

Crowley couldn’t care less about his possibly-pastry. He abandoned the rolling pin and nipped across the aisle. 

“Angel.”

Aziraphale looked up at him.

“Hello my dear,” he said, his voice small. He paused. Flashed a smile that aimed for wry. “I think this might be it for me.”

He sounded far too defeated. Crowley decided Aziraphale shouldn’t sound like that.

“No. It’s not.”

“But-”

“You can’t give up now! This is the semi-final!”

Aziraphale pressed his lips together. “Maybe this is where I’m meant to stay.”

Crowley made a desperate noise and put his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders, staring right into his slightly dewy eyes. Being in the tent would be inconsequential if Aziraphale wasn’t there. If Crowley couldn’t tune into his voice, if he had no-one willing to sit all prim and proper with him outside and rather less prim after they’d sat talking in the Bentley long enough for the sun to set. He had a bag of fudge in his glovebox now.

_“No,”_ he said again. _“Come on_ Aziraphale!”

Aziraphale gestured to his workbench. “I can’t_ actually_ work miracles, Crowley.”

“You don’t need one – just bake the way you always do.”

The cameras were trained on them. Normally Crowley would try to shake them off, but he had a more important matter at hand. Under his hands. Aziraphale’s shoulders were warm. Crowley squeezed them gently.

“You’ve got this angel. Start again. Bake with all the-the-” he stuttered over what he couldn’t define, frantically waved his arms about as he tried to grasp it, “– _love _you do.”

“It’s not like I haven’t been _trying,”_ he said snippily.

Crowley could hear Floaty and Serious Candidate 1 working around them. The tent had never made him more stressed.

He started several sentences and finished none of them. 

Aziraphale gazed up at him, his bowtie lopsided.

Crowley dropped his arms and straightened it thoughtlessly. His glasses slipped down a little, and he met Aziraphale’s eyes.

“It won’t be any fun without you,” he said softly.

The worried wrinkles left Aziraphale’s face. Crowley saw one of the camera’s zoom in out of the corner of his eye. 

Aziraphale took a sudden deep breath in, and turned to his bench with a determination that hadn’t been there previously. “Right. Fourth time lucky.”

“Fourth time lucky,” Crowley echoed.

He knew he had to get working, and fast, if he wanted his own showstopper finished on time, but he lingered beside Aziraphale a little longer.

“For what it’s worth,” he began lowly, “I’m willing that one of the others’ showstoppers goes wrong,”

“That’s _awful.”_

There was a loud clatter behind them.

They both whipped around at the noise.

“On second thoughts,” Aziraphale muttered, “_will away_ Crowley.”

Floaty, having come only just above Aziraphale in the other rounds, had an absolute _mare_ of a showstopper.

Crowley barely suppressed a whoop of joy as Sandi tearfully said her name. (He instantly felt bad. But not bad enough to stop the giddy smile he flashed at Aziraphale’s comically shocked face).

They stared wide-eyed at each other as they clapped consoling hands to Floaty’s shoulders. When everyone started chatting and exchanging hugs they leaned in and hugged tight. They’d never done that before. Crowley found it odd that they’d never done that before. He only let go because Paul wanted a word.

After the congratulations came his interview, and he was left standing off by himself as the interviewer walked away.

Or at least, he was by himself until Floaty launched herself at his middle, and gave him a teary hug that _definitely_ left some unsightly snot stains. He hugged her gingerly back.

“I’m so_ happy_ for you three,” she muffled into his jacket, then pulled away. “Though I’ll miss everyone. I’ve made such good friends. We’ve_ all_ made such good friends.”

Crowley gazed over her shoulder. Aziraphale still looked very bewildered.

“Yeah.”

“And for some of us, _more_ than friends, yes?”

Crowley sharply refocussed.

She smiled up at him, and Crowley flushed violently, the dirt at his feet suddenly beyond interesting. There was a stone. A few leaves. Floaty’s face.

He blinked. Floaty had leaned down to get in his eyeline. She giggling at him. Grabbed his arm and squeezed it gently.

“There’s only one more week left y’know,” she said softly.

Crowley knew.

“You should do something.”

Crowley should.

“I’m quite worried you’ll do this,” she said, and gestured to what could have been Crowley’s silence but also very plausibly just his general Crowley-ness. (Which in Crowley’s opinion, was fair). “You need to use your words.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

“You can’t lose him.”

She didn’t say it gravely. It wasn’t a warning. It was a statement of fact.

“I know,” he said quietly.

She squeezed his arm again. “Oh _good. _As long as you know that then I don’t mind not making it to the final. I’ll be rooting for you!”

Crowley kicked a hole in the dirt and accidently sprayed earth up her ankle. She made a heart with her hands.

Crowley re-joined Aziraphale.

“Well. We made it,” he said.

“That we have.”

“Bit dicey for a second there,”

“Oh yes. I was fucked.”

Crowley short circuited.

“Ah-f-h-s-_sorry?!”_

Aziraphale still looked a little frazzled. Rather wide eyed. “I’m not going to say it again.”

“N-no. Okay.”

Crowley blinked at a bird that landed nearby.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

Crowley turned.

“I-” Aziraphale continued, “well, I certainly wouldn’t still be here if not for your ‘pep talk’.”

“S’kay.”

The bird chirped.

“You realise one of us could actually win?” Aziraphale said.

In all honestly no, it hadn’t really occurred to Crowley. The celebratory bouquet was equivalent to a bunch of petrol station cast offs to the pedigree plants already in his flat, and what the hell was he meant to do with a _cake stand?_

But he did remember, with the same vivid clarity he remembered all conversations with Aziraphale, an offhand remark about a certain restaurant in London.

Crowley had made several offhand remarks. Most of Crowley’s usual forms of conversation consisted of offhand remarks. If he was held to every offhand remark he made then he’d be in Deep Shit. But this _particular _offhand remark suddenly seemed incredibly important.

“Yeah. Suppose.” Crowley coughed to clear his throat. Coughed a little more violently as he inhaled wrong. “There-er, I mean y’know…if I win then th- the ‘_Ritz trip’ _is still…”

It occurred to Crowley that Aziraphale was very unlikely to remember what he was on about. He scouted around for the nearest bush to throw himself into. Maybe he could scale a tree-

“I’m holding you to it. I’m thinking crêpes.”

“Crêpes,” Crowley repeated. Then, to himself, dizzy with the fact that_ he remembered. _“Can I hear a wahoo?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this is late.
> 
> Errors and stuff are my bad; kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	7. Chapter 7

Crowley was in the final of the Great British Bake Off.

That was a fact.

Crowley liked Aziraphale. _Liked_ liked Aziraphale.

That was also a fact.

That wasn’t to say he hadn’t realised that before. Of course he had. (As had, so it seemed, literally everyone else in the tent. Paul had once caught him staring rather fondly at Aziraphale and _winked, _which meant Crowley had had to scowl at him extra hard for the rest of the day).

He’d known it, but actively avoided thinking too much about the lurch in his chest whenever he saw Aziraphale, (which Crowley had been convinced were heart attacks the first three times it had happened). Things were fine as they were.

But Fact Number One meant things _‘as they were’_ were about to abruptly come to an end. It was going to be the worst thing that had ever happened to him. (Worse even than when he’d hesitated by a tabard wearing and leaflet wielding man in the street, and subsequently been forced to endure the entire speech _and _accept a leaflet after twenty five minutes he would never get back, folding it away into his pocket where it would stay until it was discarded 3 weeks later).

So Crowley put words to it, the thing he knew but was avoiding, and said softly to quiet of his flat:

_“I like Aziraphale.”_

If plants could speak, they would have said _‘Obviously’._ A few managed to roll their eyes. Somehow.

Aziraphale was unexpected. Kind, yes, (Crowley had not forgotten how easily he’d extended his umbrella, how easily Crowley had moved closer) but also earnest and devious and petty when he wanted to be, and captivatingly expressive. Crowley had seen the tilt of his head, the flutter of his lashes and the furrow of his eyebrows. The disapproving purse of his lips, the smile that showed his teeth and smoothed the lines in his forehead and instead created creases by eyes that weren’t really all that blue but shone nonetheless. Crowley had heard more than Aziraphale’s polite titter; he’d prompted Aziraphale’s _laugh _which was more of a giggle, and learned that despite how he claimed to be the nice one he was just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing.

Crowley swallowed, thinking.

Floaty was right. He needed to do something.

Before, his motivation to win was simply to prove that he could bake a lot better than some of the half-witted but good intentioned hopefuls they put on the show.

But now winning was Step One in an extremely rough Four Step Plan of Action:

Step 1: _Win Bake Off_

Step 2: _Ask Aziraphale to the Ritz_

Step 2.5: _Specify that he meant with Crowley_

Step 3: _Eat cr__êpes (and not choke and die)._

Step 4 was less of a step and more of an idle daydream wherein suddenly it was understood that Crowley_ liked_ Aziraphale, quite a lot. (A ridiculous amount, really). Ideally in this scenario Crowley didn’t have to make some sort of speech. Ideally it just sort of happened.

But of course it wouldn’t work like that. And Crowley would have to say something. Which is why Step 4 was not as yet a step, as Crowley had not thought At All about what he was going to say.

What he had thought about, extensively, is what _Aziraphale_ would.

Because lying on his bed, draped dramatically enough over the bedspread for the tips of his fingers to brush the floor, Crowley had an exceptional amount of time to overthink.

(And that was something Crowley was quite good at).

Aziraphale liked his company, didn’t he? They always sat or stood together, and he complained about Crowley’s driving but always followed him to the Bentley regardless, and usually waved until he was just a cream and tartan speck in the rear-view mirror.

And he’d been the one to suggest the crêpes.

Crowley didn’t think he was misreading things. He really bloody _hoped_ he wasn’t.

Crowley lay stewing on his bed until the sun set, where it abruptly hit him that he had wasted an entire day where he should have been practicing his bakes for the final. The Four Step Plan would be royally fucked if he failed Step 1. He could of course rely on spontaneity in that instance, but that historically could go either way (purchasing the Bentley had been genius. Letting an amateur hairdresser anywhere _near_ him less so).

He mentally shoved everything else aside and slid off the bed, helped perhaps too much by the silken sheets, and ended up puddled on the floor. He scrambled up. He had Bake Off to win.

The tent felt weird with just three bakers in it. Crowley, Aziraphale, and Serious Candidate 1 had made it to the final. Crowley’s station was at the back of the room, and his hand was still tingling a little from the sincere way Aziraphale had grabbed it, squeezed, and said, “Good luck my dear.”

“You too angel,” he’d said, and squeezed back. He’d never squeezed someone’s hand before, and was worried he was messing it up somehow. (Crowley was confident it was possible. And that he was doing it). Aziraphale blinked. Ducked his head. Didn’t remove his hand.

That was until, with their impeccable timing, the set called for places, and they moved to separate benches.

Crowley was making angel cake for his signature. It was perhaps the first time he fully understood the stress of baking. It had to be perfect. Beyond perfect. Heavenly.

Many practice sponges had been slung straight in the bin – a small air bubble here, a little crumbly there – and the plants in the flat had agreed that they should have known better.

Crowley gave his sponge a stern look and muttered a threat that involved several meat grinders as he slid it into the oven.

“I don’t think it’d dare burn now.”

Crowley jumped, standing up to see Aziraphale standing on the other side of his counter.

“Oh I dunno. A couple of practice ones took it upon themselves to set a bad example.”

Aziraphale snorted quietly.

“What’re you making?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale adjusted his waistcoat. “Ah uhm – devil’s food cake.”

Crowley swallowed. “Nice,” he said stupidly.

“Yes. Hopefully.”

They stood there, the smell of cooking cake wafting around them, and Crowley couldn’t help but notice that both their counters were lilac.

The technical challenge was absurd. Even Serious Candidate 1 was stifling laughter. All three looked at the fire pit where they’d been dragged outside as Sandi told them how to make Baumkuchen, which was essentially cake batter poured in layers over a continuously revolving spit in front of an open flame. They had three hours. The thing could apparently easily take four. That alone screamed _bad idea._ The challenge threatened to be a repeat of the stone baked pitta.

None of them moved for a couple of seconds after the challenge started, and then there was a flurry of movement. Aziraphale muttered a quiet _“Good Lord.”_

“Oh no this is definitely Satan’s work,” Crowley said.

The flames flickered and Serious Candidate 1 made a strangled noise.

Crowley was inclined to agree.

It turned out to be like watching paint dry. Only they were watching cake cook. And it was far more stressful.

Crowley swore he looked away for only the barest millisecond, but suddenly his cake was mildly on fire. Which was to say, it was engulfed in flame. He sprung to rescue it, moving it away from the fire, and as he grappled to stop the thing from burning he convinced himself that everything was _just fine. No flames here. No sir-ee._

He finished his daring rescue, leaned back, and found Aziraphale looking at him in mild alarm.

“Alright there Crowley?”

“Oh –_ yeah._ Absolutely…”

“Tickety boo?”

Crowley snorted, and avoided a stray spark that decided to make a break for it.

All three cakes were utter disasters.

The showstopper was a blur of sugar work and an excess of bowls.

It also contained an epiphany.

Crowley had, to put it politely, decided to Fuck the Four Step Plan. Because Step 1 was fundamentally flawed.

He’d been watching Aziraphale work, captivated by his concentration, care, and frankly fantastic smelling biscuits, and Aziraphale’s love for baking was almost tangible.

He wasn’t overly concerned about winning, he just wanted his bakes to be good.

Aziraphale deserved to win.

Crowley found that he really, _really, _wanted him to.

Aziraphale was wearing his little round glasses, concentrating on piping. Crowley’s heart lurched with a non-heart attack.

The realization ruined the Four Step Plan. It did not ruin the Great Plan, which was essentially: Aziraphale/Ritz/Crêpes/Feelings _somehow. _Crowley would just have to operate plan-less, and hopefully this time not end up with a bowl cut.

Aziraphale caught his eye and sent him a quick smile. Crowley hoped with all his heart that Aziraphale ended up with the sodding cake stand. He’d know exactly what to do with it.

The picnic outside was in full swing. It was weird that the judging had just concluded for the last time. They’d all done well, but in Crowley’s opinion Aziraphale had outdone himself. He’d constructed a complicated little structure of his bookshop, and Crowley had never seen inside but the little biscuits and profiteroles somehow conveyed a cluttered homeliness that he just _knew _the real thing had.

Part of him was busy hoping that he’d get to see the real thing sometime, and his remaining brain power was scrambling to form his Spontaneous New Plan of an As Yet Undecided Number of Steps.

It wasn’t going well.

“Crowley!”

Raunchy Pun, Floaty, and Aggressively Scottish made their way towards him.

“Well done lovie!” said Raunchy Pun. “Just so you know,” she put her hand on Floaty’s shoulder, “our money’s on you.”

Floaty nodded enthusiastically. Aggressively Scottish mumbled something Crowley didn’t understand, and proceeded to look like he wanted an answer. He nodded yes, and Aggressively Scottish grunted and walked away. Crowley hoped he hadn’t just accidently sold his soul.

“So,” began Raunchy Pun.

“’So’ what?”

She raised an eyebrow. “You spoken to Mr Fell yet?”

Crowley shuffled and instinctively looked around for him

_“Crowley!”_

“I have a plan!” he rushed to say, “Well – had. It’s, just, y’know - gone a bit awry.”

Raunchy Pun rolled her eyes. “But you are going to talk to him?”

Crowley shuffled and shrugged in a way that apparently said yes.

Floaty Squealed. “Oh he’ll be so pleased!”

Crowley was taken aback, but didn’t have an awful lot of time to be as Raunchy Pun leaned closer, smoothing her hair. “If you need any help,” she started, “then I have a lot experience…_wooing gentleman_, as it were.”

Crowley choked on his tongue.

“Now,” she continued, “I’m not sure some of it is _entirely appropriate_ but-”

Struggling to form a proper sentence, Crowley eventually stuttered out “Must be going!” and retreated.

He strode away to Floaty’s giggle. He passed Maybe Fixes Computers and Serious American Lady talking. Computer’s looked just as bumbling and American Lady just as severe, but when she rolled her eyes they were a little softer. They spotted him stalking past and gave him a wave. He hesitantly waved back.

He turned away and almost bumped into Aziraphale, who he’d last seen talking to a tall man in a grey coat who Crowley could tell was a prick even from his fair distance away, (it was summer. He was in a turtleneck) and had now vanished completely.

“Aziraphale,” he said, relieved.

“Crowley.”

They fell quiet. Crowley looked to the tent. “So it’s the final then,”

“Yes. It’s…odd, isn’t it? I know it’s only been ten weeks, but it feels-”

“Longer,” Crowley finished.

Aziraphale nodded.

The crowd around them was loud. Aziraphale cast his eyes to it.

“I don’t want to keep you from…” he gestured behind him.

“Oh – no – there’s no one here for me.”

Aziraphale’s mouth pinched in the way it did when he was upset. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Crowley said. Then, seeing as he didn’t have a plan, let himself say what he wanted to. “Means I get to speak to you more though.”

The sad look vanished, and Crowley was treated to a pleased flutter of lashes.

He looked again for the man in the grey coat, but he was lost amongst the crowd. “You’ve got people here though – the guy in the grey coat?”

“Oh him,” Aziraphale said, both like he’d almost forgotten about him and extremely wearily.

Crowley caught his tone. Remembered what Aziraphale had said before about ‘his lot’. “Take it I’m not keeping you from anything important then,”

“Oh, no.”

Crowley smirked.

He looked at the tent. The judges must’ve been close to a decision. Crowley was no closer to working out Plan Part 2. (He’d renamed it. _‘New Plan of an As Yet Undecided Number of Steps’_ wasn’t exactly catchy).

When he turned back Aziraphale was looking at him. He seemed a little startled to be caught.

Crowley watched his rapid blinking. Aziraphale was still in his glasses.

“Hey – question,”

Aziraphale inclined his head in invitation.

“Do you actually _need_ those?” Crowley said, pointing at the lenses.

Aziraphale eyes lit up with delight. He leaned closer.

“Not at all. But don’t I look nifty in them?”

He giggled helplessly, and Crowley erupted into a laugh that had once caused a substantial amount of ducks to flock to him after a particularly loud outburst in the park. He didn’t think he’d ever smiled so much.

The cheering picked up behind them, and Paul, Prue, Sandi and Noel emerged, flowers and cake stand between them. Crowley and Aziraphale shared one last look, then went to join Serious Candidate 1.

Crowley stood on the end of the line, suddenly nervous, Aziraphale next to him. He bounced in place.

Aziraphale’s hand slipped into his as the finalists stood together. Crowley pulled up his mental Bake Off bingo - Close up of the finalist’s linked hands? _Check. _

Although Crowley couldn’t stop himself (He could. He didn’t) from sliding his thumb over Aziraphale’s knuckles, and that was decidedly _uncheck _for the usual hand holding.

It fell silent as Sandi started her little speech.

Her pause for dramatic effect made Crowley’s eyes roll, and he was once again especially glad for his glasses.

Sandi couldn’t her contain smile.

_“Crowley,” _she said, and Crowley’s eyebrows met his hairline in surprise.

Aziraphale was smiling the wide smile that made him look ever so slightly manic, clapping excitedly. There was a _lot _of clapping, actually, and suddenly a bouquet was thrust at him and ended up mostly up his nose. He would have been handed the cake stand too if not for the crush of bakers, who in a bizarre attempt to congratulate gave him a suffocating group hug and stepped on Crowley’s toes at least twice. Each.

Eventually Crowley pulled away, only to aggressively handshake Paul and receive a slightly too hearty shoulder pat from Prue.

He’d lost Aziraphale from sight, but when he turned he was right there, still smiling, still clapping.

“_Congratulations_ Crowley! I was hoping you’d win!”

“I-” Crowley started, a little (a lot) overwhelmed. “I was rooting for you, actually.”

Aziraphale stopped clapping, his face morphing into the soft look Crowley was besotted with.

Fuck Fucking the Four Step Plan. It was back in action. 

He was very glad to still have one hand free (although the bouquet was unruly enough to require two. He wouldn’t get that behaviour from his own plants). Crowley reached out and took Aziraphale’s hand.

“So.” Crowley cleared his throat. “Seeing as I won – the Ritz, wasn’t it?”

He took a breath in. “Let me tempt you to a spot of lunch.”

Aziraphale wiggled happily. Squeezed Crowley’s (embarrassingly damp) hand. “Temptation accomplished.”

The sun didn’t bloom out from behind the clouds. The world didn’t go silent. It very clearly was _not_ just the two of them (they were surrounded by judges, bakers, cheering crowds, and of course half a dozen cameras), but it was still the most Moment-y Moment in the history of romance. (In Crowley’s humble opinion).

If the look in Aziraphale’s eyes said anything, then he seemed to agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)
> 
> This is not quite the end my guys! There's one more chapter lined up, and also a little side thing for this series I've been working on, so if you want stick around for that as well.
> 
> Mistakes and errors etc are all my bad, and kudos and comments are awesome.


	8. Epilogue

Crowley sat back on what had to be the world’s most comfortable sofa. It was most certainly the world’s _ugliest _sofa, but when he was sitting on it he couldn’t see the awful pattern, so he let it off.

(What he had _not_ let off was the plant he’d placed on the coffee table in front of the sofa, which had started to tremble a little less violently at Crowley’s glares. He suspected (which was a lie - he _knew)_ it was Aziraphale’s fault, who’d tell it that it was doing a wonderful job anytime he walked past it, despite the countless times Crowley had told him off for it).

He fumbled for the TV remote and fiddled with the sound on the _very moderately sized_ TV squashed into the back room of the bookshop. Crowley had been all for the 43” 4k flat-screen and had begun wondering how he could possibly squash the box into the Bentley right there in the shop, but Aziraphale had been less convinced.

What had actually happened was that Aziraphale flat out refused. Crowley sulked about it right up until they’d set it up amongst Aziraphale’s books and knick-knacks and ugly furniture and Crowley’s plants and the statue Crowley had been somewhat indifferent about before but _loved_ now which was most definitely _just two bros wrestling _which Aziraphale had raised an eyebrow at but allowed as long as it was tucked out of the way. After the TV was nestled in there and Crowley was nestled on the sofa he had to admit that it was _cosy._

Aziraphale’s whole bookshop was cosy, in a way that Crowley’s flat had never been.

Aziraphale wandered in just as the adverts finished, carrying two mugs of tea.

“Did I miss anything?”

“Nah it’s just come back on.”

“Oh good,” Aziraphale said, setting the mugs down on the coffee table as Bake-Off resumed.

They’d watched the series together since the beginning. It was odd to see it all from the outside, and even odder that they were still tense about the competition. Crowley blamed it on the music. 

Aziraphale settled down on the sofa, and Crowley fell sideways until his head rested on his shoulder. Then immediately regretted it from the way it strained his neck and shifted a little closer. Then closer. Then he slung his legs sideways over Aziraphale’s lap and cuddled right up to Aziraphale’s side, the warm knit of Beige Cardigan Number 3 soft under his hands.

Aziraphale made an undignified noise as Crowley arranged himself and elbowed him more times than should be possible for a person with only two elbows, and managed to avoid being headbutted but couldn't escape the tufts of hair thrust up his nose.

“Shut up,” Crowley muttered before Aziraphale could say anything.

“It’s just you’re very pointy my dear-”

Crowley wriggled a bit more in response.

Aziraphale sighed. “Just watch the programme please.”

Crowley smirked but settled down.

They watched as the judges sat in the tent and discussed the last showstopper of the season; the final having come around much quicker just watching it then living it. It was weird to see the other side of things, and several times Crowley had had some Objections - (salted caramel was _not_ overdone thank you Paul). One of Aziraphale’s hands rested in his lap. Crowley reached out and took it.

Which, even after all the times Crowley had done it before, was _wild._

Things had gone _to plan,_ which was an unknown experience for Crowley, and meant he hadn’t planned beyond the Four Steps.

It hadn’t mattered. It’d been fine. _More _than fine. _Fan-fucking-tastic,_ actually.

(And at no point did he choke on crêpes).

It meant he didn’t have to say goodbye after Bake-Off was over. It meant that when he called _‘angel’_ Aziraphale responded - either from _his _side of the Bentley, or from around a corner in the cluttered bookshop Crowley wasn’t interested in for the books, or in King James Park whilst he fed the ducks which he’d always done alone, before. 

Crowley _liked_ liked Aziraphale, and Aziraphale _liked_ liked him too.

Bake-Off continued, and save for another round of elbowing when Crowley leant to grab their tea from the table, they were comfortable. They watched themselves line up outside, and sure enough there came the mandatory close up of the finalists joined hands. Crowley was sure the camera lingered a little longer on his and Aziraphale’s.

They watched as Crowley was declared the winner and subsequently crushed under the hoard; the handshakes and the bloody flower bouquet (which had lasted a lot longer than it would’ve usually under Crowley’s attention. He’d _refused _to have them give up the ghost after a mere week).

Crowley saw himself take Aziraphale’s hand before they cut away to his interview, which he didn’t remember participating in _at all._

What he did remember was the grin that he couldn’t shake, and he scrunched his nose up at himself smiling slightly manically at the camera, awkwardly jostling with the bouquet and wielding the cake stand in one flailing hand as he talked. It was a wonder he hadn’t taken someone’s eye out.

The screen faded to black, then the procession of updates on the bakers started, looking, as always, like it was made in PowerPoint

Crowley and Aziraphale had met up with the others a couple of times – Crowley had learned at least three more names, although Floaty had been beyond delighted with _‘Floaty’_ and insisted she be known by nothing else.

One by one they flashed up on screen. Crowley read that Maybe Fixes Computers _did_ fix computers, and was friends with Severe American Lady whose little end note was rather vague and _very_ witchy sounding. Raunchy Pun shared a photo with Aggressively Scottish, who looked slightly fearful at the way they were pressed together. Crowley privately wished him luck.

Ten bakers passed, until it was just Crowley and Aziraphale left. 

The producers had got in touch and asked Crowley for an update to wrap up the series; a quick sentence about how he was doing, and an accompanying picture. They’d said the same to Aziraphale too.

White text appeared on screen, and a picture faded into view.

_In London, Crowley and Aziraphale now share the bookshop…_

The picture was of Aziraphale and Crowley. A Selfie of the two of them – Crowley’s arm outstretched toward the camera, everything in frame slightly blurry and very tilted. They were standing close together, pressed shoulder to shoulder, their heads inclined towards each other. Crowley remembered taking it. He also remembered that afterwards, on impulse, he’d leaned over and pecked Aziraphale on the cheek. He’d snapped a picture just as he did so, capturing Aziraphale’s bashful smile and twin furiously flushed faces. Crowley had spent a long time looking at them both when he went to send a picture in, the files side by side.

The first picture melted away into the second. Blurrier than first, neither of them looking at the camera. Crowley’s lips pressed to Aziraphale’s cheek.

_…and are enjoying every second together._

Crowley felt Aziraphale turn his head towards him, and the force of his own blush made him shrivel into himself until he untangled himself enough to look back.

Aziraphale looked unbearably soft. _“Crowley…”_

Crowley cleared his throat, shifting, and trying not to slosh tea everywhere as he did. He mumbled something unintelligible.

Aziraphale looked at him a moment longer, then held his ridiculous angel mug aloft. “To Bake-Off?”

Crowley snorted. His genuine snort. And smiled his genuine smile. He held his own (sensible, black) mug in the air. “To Bake- Off.”

Jolly music sounded as the credits started to roll. Crowley rearranged himself _again _and with one sweep of his wayward legs almost sent the contents of the coffee table crashing to the floor:

Three books, the plants that Crowley wouldn’t admit _just perhaps _bloomed greater than before after Aziraphale absentmindedly praised them,

And an engraved cake stand, filled to the brim with cakes they’d baked. Together. Neat and precise. Rich and flavoursome.

Perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Lets all collectively ignore this is horribly late).
> 
> So it's the end!!!!! I hope you've enjoyed this :)
> 
> There is just a little something extra set in this 'verse coming but it's a little different and not technically part of this fic, so whilst this is over I'm not quite done with the stupid bake off au yet.
> 
> Mistakes and all that are my bad; kudos and comments are awesome!!!!


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